I did not wish to the King yet. The crown of

  Mathura was not for me. My time would

  come, but I wanted to study the Vedas,

  ancient texts that were said to be the domain

  of the exalted few.

  This is what I told Lord Vasudev, Akrur, and

  the other courtiers. My grandfather Ugrasen,

  Lord Vasudev's father, was to be the King of

  Mathura once again and my father after him.

  I wished to educate myself and would do so

  under the tutelage of the Rishi Sandeepani.

  I travelled with my brother Balram to

  Avantika. The rishi ran an establishment to

  educate students away from the distraction of

  family and home. I would learn the sciences,

  mathematics, languages, and the religious

  scriptures. I would learn to cook, chop wood,

  gather fruits, be responsible, be disciplined.

  In the idyllic environs of the ashram, I would

  live like all the others, in anonymity, without

  the spectre of fantastical foes.

  To become a great king, the first choice one

  must make is to seek wisdom. Was I to

  become a great king? Was I to become a

  king? At that point in time, as I prepared to

  go to what would later be called Ujjain, I was

  not particularly sure. Yes, of course, I was

  aware of who I was, what I was destined for,

  but that awareness was never something I

  dwelt on. I liked my thoughts to be occupied

  by the mundane trivialities of human

  existence. A friend once asked me the

  purpose of life, and I remember telling him

  that my life's goal is to finish up all the butter

  before I am caught. When your mind can

  create universes and alter cosmic forces, it is

  wise to focus on the simple, the obvious, the

  temporal.

  I would focus on the daily rigors of student

  life in Rishi Sandeepani's ashram. Maybe I

  would find myself evolving into a better

  human, the divinity in me finding the roots it

  was eternally in search of.

  I stayed sixty-four days in the ashram. I

  learnt sixty-four different aspects of

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  knowledge, sixty-four different skills. I was

  apparently very good at learning. I made a

  friend, Sudama.

  There was a small pool called the Gomti

  Kund where Sudama, Dau, and I washed our

  writing tablets at the end of the day. We sat

  there on the cool stone steps that were damp

  with the waters, and as the moisture seeped

  in through the thin white cotton garments we

  wore, I felt more at peace than ever before.

  Sometimes we would sip the buttermilk we

  carried with us in earthen pots tied up into a

  cloth sling so that the buttermilk would not

  spill over.

  A young girl used to come to the Gomti

  Kund every other day. I would tease her and

  play with the lamb that accompanied her.

  The girl would always leave humming a

  melody that reminded me of a past I would

  be unable to return to. She never told me her

  name, and Sudama's favourite game was

  making up possible names for her.

  When a student's education was deemed

  complete, Rishi Sandeepani had the

  footprints of the student that he considered

  the best of the best, embossed on a stone

  slab. My footprints remained in my Guru's

  Ashram long after I had left.

  In the sixty-four days that I spent at the

  ashram, I never once felt the heaviness that

  had enveloped me when I killed Kansa. And

  it was because of Sudama. He saw things as

  they should be, as they are. He was poor, was

  no intellectual giant, and was not very strong

  physically, but I loved him. I loved him

  because he behaved in the most irreverent

  way and I liked it. I liked it because he

  treated me like a friend. As I spent my days

  in the ashram pretending to acquire wisdom,

  but in truth getting over the deep-rooted

  anguish of having taken the life of a man

  related to me by blood, blood that I had spilt,

  Sudama helped me forget.

  But I forgot about Sudama once I left the

  ashram. The not-so-great side to my

  philosophy of being in the present, I suppose.

  I forgot about Sudama, who was forced to

  come to me seeking help. He should not have

  had to. I have very few friends. Sudama was

  one of them. I should have stayed in touch. I

  should have looked him up. I should have

  helped before he needed it so badly. Life is

  made of should-haves but didn't—even mine.

  There are two regrets I carry within me from

  my days as Krishna. I let go of Radha. I

  forgot about Sudama.